by Jo Crow
Amanda looked me dead in the eye. “I should have put the propane tank inside your goddamn bedroom.”
My heart stopped. I stared at Amanda in disbelief, and Amanda looked back in a cool, impartial way that hurt me deeper than contempt would have. “What?”
“The propane tanks?” Amanda sighed. “You know, the white tanks filled with volatile gas? The ones littered around your house and yard? I should have put one in your bedroom.”
My eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Clara, you really are a goddamn stupid cow, aren’t you?” Amanda shook her head and rolled her eyes skyward again. “Here I am, confessing to what I did last night, and you’re standing there gawking at me like I’m speaking Chinese.”
“Because I don’t understand why you’d do such a thing!” In my heart, I still didn’t believe her. Word had undoubtedly spread around town about the explosion, and some of the first responders might have let information leak to the public. There was a chance Amanda was pulling my leg and leading me on.
But the dead look in her eye said otherwise.
I couldn’t understand why my once best friend would do something like that to me. I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about my father’s crime, and no one had ever thought to doubt Rachel’s death was suicide… so what was going on? If she really had set fire to my house, what was propelling her hatred?
Did she think I’d killed my parents, just like everyone else in town?
“You don’t understand why I’d do something like that?” Amanda clicked her tongue three times. “Well, I know why I’d do something like that, and that’s enough, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what you think. I’ve made that pretty clear, you know, by trying to kill you. If I cared what you thought, maybe I’d hold off.”
“Stop joking.” My voice rose a pitch and warbled. “Is it the townsfolk who are doing this to you? Are they putting you up to it? You’re my best friend, Amanda, you—”
“If I didn’t have wall-to-wall carpeting and a lease, I’d kill you right now just to get you to shut the hell up.” Amanda looked me over from head to foot disparagingly. “Ever since you got back, all you’ve done is whine and complain. You think your life is so tragic? You think you don’t deserve every single horrible thing coming your way? All the death threats, your son’s health, your parents’ murder… you know, if you look at all the tragedies you’ve suffered in life, it’s pretty obvious someone up there hates you.” Amanda’s lips curled with disapproval. “And it should come as no shock that a lot of people here hate you, too.”
The image of Amanda in my mind and the things she was saying didn’t match up. It was like watching a movie where the audio track had fallen out of sync with the image.
“It would have been easier if you’d died of smoke inhalation. I thought I was being merciful.” Amanda turned and went to leave the room while I watched in disbelief. “I thought it would be better for your little boy, but I guess that hasn’t quite gone according to plan.”
“Are you insane?” My mouth found the words before my brain did. “What is your problem?”
I was stuck between wanting to chase after Amanda to demand answers and staying the hell away. Was she serious? I couldn’t tell. No matter how severe her tone and how dead her eyes, my mind refused to connect my childhood best friend with the person who’d tried to kill me in the middle of the night. Instinct brought me to follow her, although at a distance. When she entered the kitchen, I stopped in the doorway.
Kitchens meant knives, and I wasn’t willing to risk my life on the tile floor instead of the carpet she’d lamented before.
“You know,” Amanda said. She opened a drawer and drew a carving knife from inside, then held it up as she leaned against the counter as if to examine the blade. “I thought when you went away I could handle not killing you, too.”
My hand gripped the doorframe. I said nothing.
“I thought maybe if you kept your distance and stayed out of Hickory Hills I could live the rest of my life satisfied that justice had been served, and someone else felt my pain.”
She was deranged. She had to be. The dead look in her eyes had darkened with aggression, and when her gaze flicked to me, hatred burned there. Was it a possession? I didn’t believe in the paranormal, but how else was I to explain Blake Harwood stalking me after twenty years missing and the uncharacteristic hatred in Amanda’s eyes? It wasn’t normal.
“But now you’re back, all chipper and adjusted, crying on camera for money about how much you miss good old Mom and Dad, while everyone on set fawns over you, I’ve changed my mind. You haven’t suffered. You haven’t suffered nearly enough.”
“You’re insane.” I was confused. I couldn’t be the crazy one, could I? I wasn’t seeing this through the wrong lens, missing the punchline? “Amanda, can you please tell me what the hell is going on? Why are you acting this way? You weren’t like this yesterday.”
Amanda sighed. She set the knife on the counter and took a few steps toward me.
Instinctively, I jumped back.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes!” I backed across her living room as she kept approaching, glad I was on the way to the front door. “You babysat James while I was busy with my shoot. You went out of your way to help me when I needed it the most! Something must have happened. Did someone threaten you? Is something else going on?”
Amanda stopped six feet from the door. My hand was on the doorknob, and I was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. It was an eerie thing to not recognize my childhood friend. The hate in Amanda’s expression had changed her.
“Clara?” she asked softly, “I need you to listen. I don’t need you to speak, or react, or do anything other than understand me. You need to listen carefully, because I’m not going to repeat myself again.”
The way she spoke was calm and calculating, like she’d been waiting to say what she had to say for a long time. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be right—someone had to have invented the narrative and fed it to her. She’d been so welcoming…
“Ten years ago?” Amanda arched an eyebrow. “I killed your parents. I cut off their fingers, tortured them, made them beg for forgiveness, and then I shot them dead. I killed your mother first because she wouldn’t shut her goddamn mouth. I think you and she have that in common, wouldn’t you say?”
It was as if the nightmarish hellscape I so often found myself plunged into was manifested, more vivid than ever before. There was no way it was real. I thought perhaps the darkness from the previous night, from the fire, had come back to consume me.
“But then again, maybe you have more in common with your father.” Amanda looked to the side as if she were reminiscing. “The way he threw money at his problems to make them disappear? The vile things he did with money that fell into his lap? The way he drew others in and fed off their kindness until they had nothing left but empty hearts and exhausted spirits? That sounds an awful lot like you, too.”
I knew I wasn’t a saint. I’d done things in the past I regretted, and I’d torn families apart willingly because I couldn’t care less—but those days were over. I’d escaped my past.
But not Amanda.
The darkness inside Amanda had festered and intensified, and I witnessed it dragging her down. I’d had a glimpse of the old Amanda at the bar the night before, but now? Now that I could see behind the masks she wore and into the truth in her heart? I knew I’d never really known her.
The little girl I’d been best friends with during childhood, our days spent together in the McNair house while her mother worked and my mother took care of other affairs—when had she changed? When had she let go of that innocence to embrace hatred?
I twisted the doorknob, but Amanda made a hissing noise through her teeth that made me stop.
“My mother deserved better than your family,” she told me. Her voice had started to crack, her words trembling. “My mother deserved so much more. She shouldn’t have died. And you know w
hat? You probably think the same thing. Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen, though. That’s the sad thing about life—you never get to call the shots.”
I couldn’t stay here. Not any longer. Fearful, I twisted the doorknob and bolted through the front door. It was a short sprint to my car but, by the time I arrived, I was out of breath. My hands shook as I tugged at the door handle and dove inside. Even after the locks were engaged, I couldn’t let go of the terror welling inside.
Amanda?
Of all people, it was Amanda.
I gripped the steering wheel and dared look back at the house. Amanda stood in the doorway casually and, as I lifted my gaze, she raised a hand as if to wave. What would have been friendly was now so sinister I couldn’t help but tremble.
Amanda, somehow, had found out what my father had done, and she’d taken justice into her own hands. For the last ten years she’d been lying in wait, wondering if I’d ever come home again so she could exact her final justice against the family of the man who’d murdered her mother.
And I’d given her the perfect chance.
29
The interrogation room in Hickory Hills Police Department was claustrophobic. The small, slate gray room had a single table that could sit six, though the table occupied so much of the room there was hardly space to move around it. But there were only two wooden chairs. The rest of the table was left empty and, for some reason, seeing so much blank space made me nervous—like I would be expected to fill it with the information I was about to share.
There was no clock. There were no windows. If there was a two-way mirror, like I saw so often in movies, it was expertly concealed. Apart from the door, I saw no way anyone could look into this room. There wasn’t even a security camera.
I was well and truly alone.
I sat for what felt like hours. My cellphone was back in the wreckage of the staff house; even if I had it on my person, it would have been confiscated. An officer had patted me down before I so much as stepped foot beyond the limits of the lobby, and I’d been guided directly to the door and dropped off. Hickory Hills was a backwater town isolated from modern civilization, but it was reassuring to see that the officers who worked here were serious about their duties.
Or maybe it was because I was the prime suspect in a double murder, and they were worried I’d try to kill again.
If only they knew.
While I waited, I picked at the side of the table. The wood was sanded smooth, but imperfections gave me grooves to work at, and I was glad for the busywork, even if it was pointless. I couldn’t keep my hands still, and I bounced my leg as I waited, to try to work out my nervous energy.
She’d looked after James for me.
Why didn’t she kill us? Why wait? I didn’t buy her story about the cleanup it would take to make sure no one knew she’d killed us at her home. If she had so much hate in her heart, why hadn’t she acted on it sooner?
She’d let me escape, even after confessing to her alleged crimes.
The door opened. I looked up from where I’d been picking at the table to find Detective Elkins entering the room. There was an electronic device in his hand which I was fairly sure was an audio recorder. He wore a shirt and tie, his jacket thrown over his shoulder like he’d come in a rush, though his gait didn’t speak of urgency. He closed the door behind him, then pulled the vacant chair out from the table and sat. The device was placed on the table. He pushed a button on it, and a red light came on.
We said nothing.
Detective Elkins folded his arms on the table and craned his neck from side to side. Through body language alone, he made it clear to me he was in no hurry, and he wasn’t about to rush this meeting. It was simultaneously a relief and terrifying.
I had to believe the truth would come to light. No matter his prejudice, I had the facts on my side. I’d heard Amanda’s confession myself, and I knew what she’d done.
I wasn’t guilty.
“So.” Detective Elkins cleared his throat and laced his fingers together. “I’ll be recording this conversation, as is standard with all interrogations conducted in this county. Do you consent to being recorded?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get down to business… you’re stepping forward with information that is relevant to the McNair case?”
“Yes.” I sat up a little straighter and met Detective Elkins’s eye. “I know who killed my parents.”
Detective Elkins chuckled, then cleared his throat again and drew himself together. “Sure. Okay. So after your house burns down, and evidence is found that incriminates you, you mysteriously discover who committed the crime. But I digress. I’ll bite. Who is he, McNair, and how do you know it was him?”
My blood boiled, but anger wouldn’t help. Difficult as it was, I bit back on the scathing reply I had and played nice. “It’s not him—it’s her.”
“Color me intrigued. Okay. Who is she, and how do you know she did it?”
I refused to be intimidated by his snide remarks. “Amanda Harwood confessed to me this morning.”
Detective Elkins sat back in his chair. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth and looked skyward as though lost in thought. Was he really considering what I’d said? My heart skipped a beat, this time with excitement rather than fear. If he was willing to believe me, it meant I had a chance.
“Tell me a little more about what Amanda confessed to,” Detective Elkins said at last. He kept his head angled upward, his eyes set on a spot on the ceiling. “I’m interested to know what crimes she is, and is not, responsible for.”
I tried to recall what Amanda had revealed to me, and the order she’d revealed it. The small details were obscured by panic, and I was scrambling to reclaim them.
“Well…” I hesitated. “I arrived at Amanda’s house immediately after leaving the wreckage of the staff house on the McNair estate. She answered the door and gave me some of her old clothes to get dressed in, since I’d arrived in pajamas smelling of smoke.”
“What is your relationship to Amanda that you’d be comfortable arriving unannounced, and in your nightclothes?” Detective Elkins asked.
It was a fair question. “Amanda and I have been best friends since we were young. Her mother came to work at the McNair estate as a housekeeper in the main house, and she’d often come along with her mother for work because her father was away during the day. We grew up together until she moved away.”
“After her mother’s death, twenty years ago,” Detective Elkins added.
“Yes. That’s right. She went to live with her Aunt Susan, but we still saw each other at school every day, and we spent most weekends together after she came to terms with her mother’s death.”
“Continue.”
“So Amanda’s been my best friend almost all my life, and when she found out I was back in Hickory Hills, she went out of her way to help me. She babysat James, and she even made us food. After losing everything in a fire, it was natural to want to see her. That, and… well…” I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but I knew holding anything back would only get me in trouble later on. No matter how far-fetched it seemed, I needed to tell Detective Elkins everything I’d uncovered in my recent search. “I also needed to see her because I wanted her to know something I’d found out about her mother’s death.”
“Do tell.”
“While I was investigating what happened ten years ago, trying to find out who might hold a grudge against my family that they’d want me dead, too, I uncovered some details in old journals my father wrote that your investigative team never had access to. According to the journals, my father was having an affair with Rachel Harwood—Amanda’s mother—and after she demanded he divorce my mother or she’d come clean about what they’d been doing, he killed her. It wasn’t suicide, as is on the report. I needed to tell Amanda; all this time she’d been beating herself up because she felt she wasn’t enough to keep her mother alive.”
Was that true? It struck me that, at
eight years old, probably, but as a teenager? When had Amanda turned against me?
Had she turned against me at all?
I wasn’t entirely convinced someone hadn’t put her up to it, but I couldn’t ignore the insider knowledge she had about the fire, or how I could connect two of the three objects recovered from the wreckage back to her.
Detective Elkins rubbed at his eyes, his palm resting upon the bridge of his nose. “All right. So. Apparently you’ve solved two murder cases—one which was ruled a suicide a long, long time ago.”
“I wish I were lying. I really do. It made me sick to think my father was a murderer.”
“Of course.”
Frustration throbbed in my temple, but I couldn’t let it win. I had to deliver what I knew in a calm and measured way, no matter how hard Detective Elkins tried to press my buttons. I knew he was trying to gain a psychological advantage over me—to make me so angry I couldn’t keep my lies straight, so cracks would begin to appear in my story. It was too bad for him nothing of the sort was going to happen. There were no lies to be rooted out and no cracks to open up. I was innocent.
“So, I went to tell her. I tried to tell her last night—”
“When did you find out your father was a murderer?” Detective Elkins mused. “Just for curiosity’s sake.”
“Yesterday; two days ago.” I was confused. Time was distorted. “I asked to see her, and she told me to meet her at High Fliers. I went, but it was too noisy and she was in too celebratory a mindset to hear what I had to say, so I decided I needed to tell her this morning instead.”
“And then your house burned down.”
I squeezed my eyes shut in irritation. “And then someone burned down my house.”
“So you ran to Amanda Harwood’s place in your sooty pajamas with just your keys and your wallet in your possession so you could confess to her that your father killed her mother, even though the death was ruled a suicide. Is that about right?”
I wanted to shake him and tell him to listen, but I didn’t. Instead, I curled my hands into fists. They were on my thighs beneath the table, so I didn’t worry about Detective Elkins calling me on hostile behavior. “That’s right. And also because Amanda was my best friend, and I figured she might be able to help.”
